Blessed Patriarch, Isaiah

 

Blessed Patriarch 

             This a poem to you, Isaiah,                

white haired, bent over your scroll,

weighed down with a vision’s burden.

Ancient prophet, whose life was in a palace,

yet servant of our King.

Your place was unique in time, chosen.

Our Father loved and trusted you.

As I read and ponder your words,

my world changes;

a polar shift occurs.

The mystery of your words

sift into spirit patterns of meaning,

the language of the Lord,

touching the center place of my soul.

Illumination bursts forth,

I know who I am now.

Chosen and set apart in the preexistence,

to write of these last days,

the songs of His heart for me. 

I can see more clearly

the face of my Counselor,

my God and my King.

The heavens unroll as a scroll

because of you,

Oh, blessed of patriarchs,

Great are the Words of Isaiah.

2005 Beverly E. Field

 

Ancestors Influence Us

 

Ancestors

They speak to us through wills,

And birth certificates, journals

And marriage licenses,

To tell us what they did and how they lived,

Of how they fought in wars and revolutions,

Or stayed at home and raised

Their crops of corn and children

 

As we search and find the documents

That tell of great events and small,

Our eyes of love clothe these words

On dry and dusty paper with living flesh.

On imagination’s stage they dart about

With the burning energy of youth,

Or limp along on tired legs

Of pioneers who near their journey’s end.

 

I knew you not, but now I know you.

Your blood is mine, your struggles gave me life.

Had you not been, I would not be.

And as I resurrect the past

Through microfilm, CD and book,

I only pray that some day one will say

Of me, I knew him not, but I am proud

To have his genes within, making me

A little bit like him.

 2005 Robert E. Field